


Wicked Game

by veronicasalanderblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heterochromia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronicasalanderblack/pseuds/veronicasalanderblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born in a world filled with soulmate fairytales and legends, parentless and cursed with an evil colour for your Soulmate Eye, this is a story of how to survive believing you were soulmateless all your life, to find out your soulmate was there right beside you since birth, only to be ripped apart forever by Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tightrope

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, heterochromia characters. The right eye is rightfully yours (no puns intended), the left eye is your soulmate's. For example, red-blue eyed person meet blue-red eyed person. Done. Happy ending. Not in this fic though.  
> The bunny plot and trillions of details is Lady Jellyfish's. I just mixed them together. Please do forgive me for any errors since English isn't my mother tongue.  
> Still, please leave a comment below so I can fix them as soon as possible. Thank you very much ~

_Blessed those who do not see yet believe,_

_Pity those have seen yet with crushing faith._

 

 

When Haray was first brought to the orphanage, still red and squishy wrinkly since his birth, the Headmistress believed that he would get out of this place in no time. Beautiful face, cute nose, and with limbs intact. He seemed to be a sweet child, no crying or fussing like others.

His mother had shoved him into Mrs. Cole’s hands, and vanished immediately, leaving a crumbled note of name and birthday.

Haray Nouel. After three days since his arrival, Haray had another name.

“Monster.”, the children whispered, frightened. Haray’s right eye bloomed a beautiful green shade, blinking slowly to adjust to low lighting. His left eye snapped open, dark velvet crimson staring at the ceiling.

They bound his left eye – the colour of which was a taboo – with an eye patch. His soul mate must be a devil crawling from seven hells, and sweet Haray who never cried was pushed in a dirty crib, locked inside an abandon room. Bad things happened if one dared to get close to the door.

“The devil’s bride”, they said, disgust filling their voices. A blind woman who suffered from rheumatism and the loss of her husband took care of him, and the story of Nouel slowly became a mystery.

Until 5 months later, Tom Riddle was born, and the dark room welcomed its child with soft snow and small hissing lacing in heavy shadow.

 

 

People didn’t come to the dark room, unless there were visitors who pompously asked for every single child to be presented. Adoption was a flowery word – children of all ages were bathed and introduced like cattle on Sunday markets. They smiled shyly, proudly said their names, showed women and men their well-dressed dolls and pretty drawings. They sang and danced, tried their best to be picked and had “parents”. A home. A safe haven from coldness and starvation. A place to have a mom and a dad who pat their head, give them compliments and encouragements.

Haray and Tom were different. They didn’t speak except when asking for food and stuffs. They locked themselves in the dark room. They were outcasts – boring and emotionless as it seemed.

If Tom were a child version of Dorian Gray – darkly handsome and well-mannered; Haray was a statue of ice. They endured each other for reasons : Haray with his infamous red eye, and Tom with his freakiness.

“Thee enemies of my enemies are my friends”, Tom explained to a seven years old Haray, munching on stale bread and over dated blueberry jam. At least they had each other.

 

 

_“--and at the hour of our death,_

_The hour of our death._

_The hour, the honour of our death…”_

“ _Hour_ , Haray. _The_ _hour,_ _the hour_ _of_ _our_ _death_.”, the other boy chastised lightly. He sat up on their bed, raised his chin up and opened mouth. Haray tossed the woozy blanket on their bodies, carefully listened to the words spilling from Tom’s throat, all soft and gentle. It lured him, and Haray’s eye shut.

_“Ave Maria! Heaven's Bride._

_The bells ring out in solemn praise,_

_for you, the anguish and the pride._

_The living glory of our nights,_

_of our nights and days._

_The Prince of Peace your arms embrace,_

_while hosts of darkness fade and cower._

_Oh save us, mother full of grace,_

_In life and in our dying hour,_

_Ave Maria!_

 

_Holy Mary, Mother of God,_

_Pray for us sinners,_

_Pray, pray for us;_

_Pray for us sinners,_

_Now, and at the hour of our death,_

_The hour of our death._

_The hour, the hour of our death,_

_The hour of our death._

_Hail Mary.”_

The song died out slowly. Haray was fast asleep, head lolling on Tom’s thighs. The brunette sighed fondly, blew out their last candle. The night fell on his shoulders like a robust prayer, and they slept.

 

 

Haray didn’t have special “gift” like Tom had. He couldn’t speak to snakes, or make things flying in anger. He couldn’t see through darkness like Tom, or killed grasses with a wave of fingers. Tom was smart to hide his “gift” from others, but never from Haray.

Because Haray was special. No one could understand Tom like Haray did. No one could share the same cot with Tom and his snake friend like Haray. No one would ever fight, and steal, and lie for Tom like Haray.

Sometimes, Tom thought that Haray was his soul mate. His left eye was the exact shade of Haray's right one, but Tom’s right eye was dark brown with shattered fragment of garnet near the pupil. Not the lovely bright crimson that invited Tom to look, to touch, to kiss every night when they were alone in the room, unbothered and safe.

Tom wasn’t disappointed. It had never come to his mind that he should find his soul mate. The odd orphan found the tradition ridiculous: falling and loving someone whose destiny twined with ours.

He was born this way, with “gift” that sprouted fear in human’s cores. He gave them nightmares and uttermost misery. Tom wasn’t weak and pathetic, he didn’t want to be a doll to be praised and showed off to some foster parents like a trophy, like a reminder that he wasn’t their blood and love.

He refused it, and so did Haray.

When Tom was 11, he killed Billy’s rabbit and hung the corpse on the door. The Headmistress punished Haray when she found blood on his hands, and Tom laughed.

Sweet Haray, poor Haray. A loyal follower.

Haray took all the pain and gnawed on it like a starved child at a feast. Screaming wouldn’t help him, so he embraced punches and kicks, only returned to his room when everyone had gone to bed.

Tom kept his eyes closed and his arms tight around Haray’s back, letting dry blood crumple on his front shirt.

Haray got beaten up by the Billy gang after his punishment had finished. And Tom sat next to his roommate’s body, basking in twilight glory and the sounds of Haray’s broken laughter, wet with blood filling up his lungs.

“Sweet boy”, Tom praised, sweeping sweat matted hair from Haray’s forehead. His “gift” lit up Tom’s fingers, slowly healed Haray’s injuries in tiny waves of blue halo.

Tom always rewarded his followers. Protected them from harms. Kept them safe, and used them for his own good.

After all, life wasn’t fair and pretty. There is no good or evil, there’s only power and those too weak to seek it.

Haray was his first, there would be more and more. But Haray always be the first, the fiercest. The sweet candle to Tom’s darkness, always and always.

 

 

“Mister Riddle”, the white beard man- what kind of name was "Dumbledore" anyway- stated, “I’m afraid that Mister Nouel couldn’t come with you to our school. Hogwarts has a strict policy for those with no magic. Your friend can stay here.”

Haray stopped breathing behind closed door. Tom simply nodded.


	2. Burning Out

_Don't pass me by_

_If you can't forget me neither_

 

 

“Will I see you again?”

Tom raised his eyebrows, watching Haray’s cheek flushed from the cold and embarrassment. The station was crowded – students running towards their friends, parents clutching their sons and daughters before sent them off to the red train. Tom and Haray didn’t talk about feelings – Tom found it an act of weakness, and Haray was uncomfortable in experiencing these emotional changes.

Still, the taller boy allowed a small smirk to escape his lips as he tsked, catching Haray’s chin in a firm yet gentle grip. Their eyes met shortly before Tom exhaled, white smoke caressing the shorter boy’s cheeks. An owl rushed through their heads, and Haray dropped his eye willingly.

“Always.”

Haray smiled, stepped back. Tom's hand brushed on his cheek one more time before he grapped his luggage, turned around and walked away.

 

 

“Slytherin!”, the Hat shouted before Tom slipped from the stool, walked slowly and oozing threats from his cloak.

The fellow snakes whispered at him, mocked him, challenged him. Tom accepted, and gradually found himself in the middle of a snake pit. He had always loved a nice challenge.

Far away in London, Haray was cornering in his dark room with no food or warm clothes. The orphanage was almost void of children, but for reasons, Haray couldn’t come to school like the others.

He knew. Not understood, because what happened to him was unfair obviously. But knowing meant he got prepared.

After all, he was the monster since before Tom’s birth.

 

 

Tom Riddle proved to be a prodigy. Scratch that, he managed to outsmart everyone at his age and elder even, with small exception of the professors.

He breathed in the knowledge with fine patience, replaced his boredom with experiments and plotting. His fellow snakes didn’t like a mudblood stepping on their pride, not with the eerie powerful magic and pureblood behavior that he wore with confidence and familiarity.

Tom paid them no mind. He knew that without power, he would die. Without connections, a wizard like him would never have power.

So he waited. Tom refused to be a sycophant to the Slytherin court. He had always been an outcast, but soon, Tom would get his own empire.

He threw himself in books and Dark Magic practices in silence, the scrawny boy named Haray kept closely in the depth of Tom’s heart.

 

Haray had always been a sweet child, even when people spat and pushed him into the old man’s iron grip. He was sold like a goat to a man they barely knew.

It seemed that the only good thing that Haray ever did was giving the orphanage a load of money to live through merciless winter. He paid no attention to Mrs. Cole rambling, his green eye kept a close observation on the man’s shiny dangling medallion. He was free from hell, but not free from his Tom. Not without his Tom.

Haray prayed that he could find a safe haven in his new home, so that Tom would have a home as well. He could do the servant works just fine.

“Come, boy.” The man said softly, his cold façade faded when they stepped outside the orphanage. Haray only brought a small duffle that held his things, dragging his feet on melting snow. London sky was a chipped mirror – every piece was filled with smoky mist, and the colour blurred, faded, just to slash a smear of black on withered trees. The ground was wet with snow, dead animals and garbage; the rotten smell cut through fresh taste of winter like a dull knife, still, it made Haray’s eyes tear up. A bluish flower gently swayed in the wind, and Haray stopped for a mere second to pluck it from its stem. The smooth texture of the petals intrigued him, as Haray followed the unknown man closely, his warm breathes billowing from numb lips.

He felt tired and weak. Coldness was a familiar noun, so was hunger. Loneliness. Fear. He knew how to write them on dusty floor before erasing with wet cloths. Haray was a smart kid – he learnt to steal books and notes and chipped pencils from other children to educate himself and Tom. He had to.

It was an order from Tom: live, and let live. Be small and unnoticed, but never stupid. People feared what they don’t know. Being imbecile wasn’t an option.

Haray understood that perfectly.

They walked past the dark, intimidate buildings of the rich, and slowly creped through the lowly area. Haray blew out a breath as they finally stopped in front of a mansion with tall, cold stone walls. The flower slowly fell on white snow, crushed and forgotten.

 

 

“Riddle, hold a second!” The brunet sighed, slowed his steps as Abraxas Malfoy strode through the mass of students. The Malfoy heir skittered halt, and they walked to the Astronomy Tower together.

In a span of three months, Tom Riddle had caught attention of the Malfoys, the Blacks and surprisingly, the Princes. They had lived with Dark Magic running in their veins, and the mudblood Tom Riddle had such surprisingly powerful magic, even more powerful than any from their respective Houses.

The Dark soared around Riddle like a black veil, cracking and oozing such mesmerizing lure to those who saw. And they saw through it.

‘ _Riddle surely didn’t know how to control his_ _power_ ’, they thought, all started circling the lone boy with their circle. Without knowing, they made them his first pawns. But the real queen wasn’t there – the first pawn that defied all nature to conquest, to rise and kneel at the king’s feet.

Still, it was the story for another time. Right now, they were children. Children were cruel, but at least they hadn't put their minds solely on that. 

 

 

The dining room glowed with thousands of candles, sprayed amber light that contrasted strongly to ebony shadow. The man had disappeared through the hall, silently positioned Haray in the middle of the room.

It went silent. There was no winter sounds – the harsh wind thrashing against windows, wooden floor creaking, fireplace hazily burnt. The illuminating light sent a wave of calmness and fear on Haray’s spine, reminded him of his posture and disheveled clothes. The eye patch kept his red eye away from the mocking glance of light, as a secret that he held dearly to his heart.

Whoever the buyer was, they surely didn’t need to see that abomination.

A sharp whistle slashed through the room. Haray’s head snapped up just in time to see a cold gun pressed on his forehead. A short bang, and the boy pushed up, fell down, rolled over. The bullets hit on where his feet left the floor, smoke dilated. Haray’s heart was leaping sturdily, but his body didn’t stop moving until a cane came whooshing on his head. The boy twisted mid-air, a horrified expression enveloped his face before it went crashing down, and darkness covered his green eye.

 


	3. Control

“Who are you writing to, Tommy boy?”

An unknown sixth year Slytherin sneered as Tom carefully sealed the letter and tied it on a Hogwarts’s owl. The bird threw Tom a hooded glance before hooting softly, and flew out of the Owlery.

The sun was a blazing fireball at the West. Wind blew through high windows, and the owls stopped their hooting, owlishly blinked as the sun finally died out, leaving teal and purple streaks of night on the burning sky.

Tom turned around, realized that he was cornered. Most students had hurriedly vacated when they saw the Slytherins, afraid of blood fight and Dark curses flying hazard. Tom wondered when would Dumbledore know all about the fight - the old coot kept a keen eye on him since the beginning, and frankly, that should be illegal in such academic curriculum as Hogwarts's.

His yew wand was slotted warmly in Tom’s fingers behind his back. The head was a sixth, followed by two third-year boys, three first-years and a silent fifth-year. Tom recognized the snotty McMillan heir with his brother, a Burke and someone from the House of Selwyn at his year. The others went unknown to him.

The sixth year who spoke first smirked at Tom’s impassive face, taken it as a sign of fright. He took his wand out, pointed at Tom’s chest with a flowery movement that Tom despised, immediately reminded of Abraxas's wand gestures before chanting, completely vain and unecessary.

“You don’t deserve to be here”, he sneered maliciously, the tip of his wand sparkling red, “Mudblood like you should rot in seven hells.”

The air cracked, and the children went flying. Tom’s eyebrow raised mockingly at the slumbered figures, his own wand didn’t even come out in sight.

“Oh?”

Their faces twisted in anger. Anger was something unfamiliar to Tom, since it had done him absolutely nothing good at all.

Hatred and a brilliant mind, however, had saved his life several times. And Haray, too.

“Crucio”, a boy shouted, a jet of red light soared through the air like a viper, hit Tom straight on the heart.

Pain. White hot pain came like a hurricane, blasted through Tom’s mind with its vicious waves and snarling teeth. However, Tom refused to kneel, to show any signs of weakness. His knees quivered slightly, and the curse ended swiftly before the children’s frightened eyes with just a lazy wave of Tom’s wand.

He smiled almost tenderly - a serene facade that spoke louder, clearer than mundane shouts - and hundreds of snakes busted out from the tip of his wand. The children tripped, ran, bitten and fell down the stairs.

Slytherin House did not speak of what happened to the pureblood heirs who had the nerve to challenge Riddle. They whispered at night, let things die out like embers to the rain. The Slytherin Court rose with its emperor, and the first years gathered around Riddle, leashed and obeyed.

Children didn’t understand orphans like Tom. The Crucio pain was unendurable, yes. But it was nothing to what Haray had felt when Tom found him lying in blood, broken ribs piercing through his small lungs.

The connection of healing magic had a price: Tom sensed, felt, tasted, saw every injuries on his first pawn’s body. Haray was a mess whenever Tom asked him to do something: broken bones, strained muscles, bloody nose…

Tom simply welcomed them all.

The Crucio left a dark smear of bad mood on Tom all winter. He patiently waited in the void of Hogwarts, with the King piece hanging underneath his clothes.

 

 

Haray woke up with a gasp, rolled off the bed just as the door opened. Light streaming in, and the man who had brought him here kicked at Haray’s calf.

“Wake up, boy.”

All children in the room quickly dressed, emotion drained from their faces. Never show fear - they learnt, after a crying child had been tossed out from the bedroom tower, her neck twisted and stuck in the rose bushes.

The unknown “Lady White” – as the man acknowledged politely – appeared at the door. She was a mere child, with black hair and grey-blue eyes hardened by faint tragedies hidden in the depth of her pupils. She was their master, their owner, and they killed, fought, served her with all their hearts. No matter how hard was it.

The first day, 20 children were brought in the room to “get acquainted” to each other. Gradually, the number lowered to 18, then 14, then 10. They never found out where were the missing children, only cold beds and empty places at the dining table shown their removal.

It was a nightmare that dressed like a daydream: they had three meals a day, fine clothes with no works to do. Those missing children were never mentioned again.

Until the food stopped coming, clothes replaced by filthy drags. They gathered in kitchen, gardens and basement. Washing, cleaning, cooking, gardening – work after work. To live, they blamed their friends, tricked and played dirty for more food, more warm clothes to soothe themselves from the cold.

It was an animal farm. Haray got used to how it worked earlier in the orphanage, raising him and Tom with less food for both of them. He hid behind counters and shelves, becoming a quiet ghost and stayed away from troubles. They didn’t care much of him, since his secret wasn’t discovered.

Yet, he found himself standing in front of Lady White, with blood streaming from his hands. 20 children, and only 4 survived, including him.

Children were nasty creatures. People always mistook of angels and children. These monsters didn’t know about laws and rules – golden cage that defined from education and proper teaching of parents and schools. In here, they taught themselves the easiest way to live, to outsmart, to defeat others and gained their places.

There was no good or evil, there was only power and those too weak to seek it.

Haray understood that, perfectly.

 

 

The letter arrived when Haray was scrapping leftover on dishes from dinner last night. The big owl stared at Haray expectantly, hooting softly when Harry shared a piece of bacon and retrieved its letter.

It was Tom’s writing that made Haray’s cheek heated up with happiness. Carefully wiped his hands on the towel, he hastily cleaned up the kitchen table one last time before sat down, thin fingers pealed of the seal wax.

 _“Haray,” ;_ the letter read. A single drop of tear fell on leather paper. Haray had never felt such thrill - like a drop of sunlight in misty eyes, made his head light and his blood sing.

The owl returned with a small package when Tom was finishing his Potion essay. The King piece carved from burnt wood rolled out, and the response ghosted a rare smile on Tom’s lips.

_“I had found us a place. Come back in summer, and we will never return to the orphanage again.”_

Pressing the King on his closed lips, Tom Riddle breathed in the faint smell of wood, sweat and smoke. Haray’s fear and hope and wildness in his cursed eye. Red like roses in the winter.

Never again, indeed.


	4. Until We Go Down

“Mr. Nouel.”

Haray stopped, slowly turned around. The wet cloth was still dragging a watery line on glass, softened the yellow hue of sunlight.

Lady White stood on the doorway, her pristine white dress gleaming under daylight. The colour of her eyes seemed to brighten up when Haray bowed respectfully, dropped his feet from the stool. She beckoned him to come closer with a gloved finger, and he obeyed, putting the cloth inside his bucket.

There were only two children left, him and another girl named Layla. The others had vanished mysteriously, leaving no traits left to remember. Without saying, the remained children were rivals. Haray had almost died from a poisoned cup of cold tea three days ago, in return, the girl’s shoulder had been broken in three ways before dinner in the same day.

They kept their faces blank, served their Lady with respect and politeness. Never once did they have a slightest thought of running away, or betraying their Lady. The girl was trapped in fear and the urge to survive; while Haray did everything for a place to welcome Tom back.

The Lady held such fondness to Layla - the young girls met in Lady's private chamber every night, and when Layla came back to the children's room, she pulled her collar down to show Haray the red finger scratches, wore them proudly. She received gifts from her mistress - silky robes, a nice leather bag. Small trinkets from the farmer market miles from them, and sweets covered in shiny aluminum paper.

Still, the green eyed boy walked with his Lady out of the living room, leaving a seething girl behind his back. Lady White led them to her study room, and with a wave of her gloved hand, the fireplace blared up with orange flames.

“Sit.”

Haray bowed shortly, silently sit down on the small sofa. The Lady had the same gift as Tom, but while Tom’s wishes were granted with no trouble, she had the slight tremor on her hands every time she used the gift.

“You can say Magic, Mr. Nouel.”

Haray’s head dropped slightly. He could never get used with his thoughts being read like a children bedtime book. “No secrets in the house”, they said.

“Forgive me, my Lady.”, he spoke, apologetically, “It was a die-hard habit.”

A habit taught by those people in this madhouse. "Gifts", never Magic. It held such thin glory at the tip of Haray's tongue when he thought of Tom's power radiated in colorful halo, burning and yet freezing cold.

The Lady hid her smile behind her tea cup, offered Haray a cup. He held the porcelain piece with practice, waiting for her to take the first sip.

They sat in comfortable silence - the soap bubble of well manners and flowery words. The Lady shuffled through her papers, and Haray breathed gently in the sweet aroma of fresh tea. God knows how long since he had had his tea this way, it seemed forever already…

“Mr. Nouel.”

“Yes”

Lady White chuckled mirthlessly, her face cold but not angry. Haray took that a good sign.

“I have heard things about you, Mr. Nouel”, she spoke softly, grey-blue eyes twinkling. Haray’s spine went rigid.

“Things, my lady?”

She nodded, gestured at the open window. Haray didn’t realized the bird until it dashed in, white snow splashing on wooden floor.

To Haray’s horrified and excited eyes, the letter floated on the desk with Hogwarts’s seal waxed on the envelop. The Lady sipped on her cup, waiting for Haray to retrieve the paper.

To her hidden surprise, Haray kept a serene smile on his lips, staring at her expectantly.

“It’s yours, Mr. Nouel. From your friend Tom, I’m certain.”

The boy shook his head, black curls bobbing gently.

“He may have know about my promotion", he replied, the eye patch shifted as he ducked his head shyly. "I do wish that he could come and live in the manor as well, my Lady."

Lady White smiled , her face shifted into the perfect image of white lily with morning dew embroiled on petals. She slithered her letter-opener through envelope, pulled the letter out. She read quickly, rosy lips quirked up every now and then before giving the boy a thin stripe of leather.

It was from Tom. A quick thank you, and Haray’s gut simmered with warmth at the long lost endearment.

_“Well done. T”_

It was short and void of information. Haray didn’t know about Tom’s life at Hogwarts, and he didn’t say a word about Lady White in return. Tom didn't need to know about the children, or how Haray was different even though the house had became his home, his last resort. He didn't need to know about the corpses, or how the servants and maids always kept their mouths shut around him, quiet like ghosts.

Some might say that Haray was over-reacting. What could possibly hold him back now? Haray was free from his life at the orphanage. He was a muggle, and Tom's a wizard. Their paths had been shaken and tore apart like a battered cloth, and the threads kept falling out, discarding over the floor. Haray didn't need to take care of Tom and vice versa. He had his own life now, though odd and at the cliff most of the time. 

Haray was free, free and free. He had no bounds on his wrist except for his employers. He bore no weights on his slender shoulders. The eye patch kept his secret certainly well, in broad daylight and at night, hiding the Devil's bride gift.

But there was something in Tom that seized Haray back. There was something dark, far more dangerous than his Lady's house secrets. Tom had the mesmerizing storm around him, shining like a beacon in black velvet nights. Haray was captured, caged and well-loved in the eye of the storm. Tom needed Haray. Tom always needed and looked out for Haray for some reasons, whether it was gratefulness or just nostalgia that spurred into one mess of something unknown.

It was too soon, too bright to see. So Haray, being a child that he never had the chance to be before, held tightly to Tom.  

What kept them apart was distance. What held them close was Haray’s blind loyalty and Tom’s merciful fondness. The King was deadly vital, however, it was the weakest piece. Only the first pawn that sacrificed itself to become his Queen was the control masterpiece.

Haray’s Pawn piece gleamed in the sunlight, when Lady White accepted his proposal.

 

_They were in the forest. Tom’s eyes were red – bright crimson like new blood and garnets, burning embers in winter’s sky._

Haray screamed himself hoarse, kicking and crawling through nightmares. Layla’s dead body lied on his feet, her blue-brown eyes opened wide and dazed. He haf won.

There was something missing in his head - a white mist that smashed his memory like a wrecking hurricane. The victorious euphoria vacated quickly when Haray collapsed on cold snow, pulling a knife from his thighs. White snow, red blood. The short vision of Tom’s eyes –red red red just like Haray’s left one. He stood up, panting.

The Lady was snow and diamonds, grey walls looming over her figure.

“Mr. Nouel.”, she called. Haray bowed, though refused to kneel. His legs quivered. A gloved hand snatched his chin, and Haray’s right eye met the thunderous look on Lady White’s face. He smiled as she sneered disgustingly, throwing the letter from Hogwarts that she kept in her pocket on his chest.

“He can stay.”, she spoke firmly, a flickering light of fear past in her mismatched pupils. Haray nodded, and let the cold hold him close. His eyes lingered on the ruby ring on the Lady's finger - the stone was bright red, an ember dying slowly before bleeding back to the rosy shade of pink.

 

Tom dreamt of green-red eye. A flash of green light. It was the colour of new world, of rebirth and the first breath of life. It was Haray’s fear and hope. It was Tom’s.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for your comments and kudos. Please feed me?


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